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Anger therapist Angus Panels writes: Hi, I'm Angus Panels. You may not know me, but I am a life coach who channels anger - not alway successfully, I admit - to help certain agitated sections of society succeed in life and achieve their goals. Or in some cases, gaols. You might have heard of some of my best-selling books* including 'Have A Shit Day! Success Without Smalltalk' and my seminal work on office politics, 'Dude, Where's My Fucking Coffee?'

In short, I coach the 'bloke', as I believe you call men in Britain, who writes this crap and he has asked me (with astonishing brusqueness, I'm gratified to say) to inform you all that he is now too successful to have to actually, physically write it. So, from now on, he will dictate it to me during his sessions (he's really quite angry underneath it all, will need a lot of work) and I will type it.

He says that his next lunchtime jailbreak (between you and me, it's pointless and makes him look like a dick, but HEY what do I KNOW, i'm just the FUCKING secretary now) will be based in Paris, which I gather is in France. He says it will feature lots of his new famous Frenchaise buddies. I don't know about you, but I can't wait. I'm being sarcastic. Is there some syntax to make that obvious?

A wake is to be held for jazzvegetable sage Danny 'Blowin' free' Happenstance who, as detailed in a somewhat smirking way below, was unforunately crushed to death by a giant tomato a few weeks ago, on the cusp of Brass Roots' first tour of Lithuania.

A reading will be read by his lifelong friend and mentor, Rogers Buoyes, the leading light of the early 1960s nouvelle legumes movement, which first set Danny on his way to something approaching (but evidently not quite reaching) immortality in jazz terms. The eulogy will cover Danny's life and times, his talent, and the early career as a novelty balloon/shape artist that led to his nickname.

Rogers will deliver his eulogy from inside a lifesize sculpture of Danny, who was a giant, fashioned from time. The eulogy will take place at the town hall in Brechin, near nowhere, Scotland. Cakes and thinly disguised contempt for incomers will be served afterwards at the house of Nan Bread, the local woman. Someone will get too drunk. All are welcome (not really).

Just kidding. So what's new? Well, Gwynn Box, Mr Angry 2004, has been barred from entering the competition again, as he has won it for the last 17 years straight. Needless to say, this has sent him to previously uncharted levels of pure, seething rage.

Perturbed: Gwynn Box

Better news for jazz/vegetable enthusiasts Brass Roots. After their disappointment at being named "Band Most Likely To Bring On A Case of Hives in Gwynn Box 2004", they were included in the line-up of this year's Glastonbury festival, at the insistence of the bald guy that runs it, Michael Meacher.

Apparently the Broots, as literally no-one knows them, went down well, the few fans awake at 4.57am swaying gently in the rolling dawn mist to the fruity strains of their freeform meisterwork "Cucumber Ragtime in E". Their 3-minute set, after a barnstorming performance by local heroes Colonic Plaque and before a largely fun-free show by At The Drive-In tribute band At The Bingo, was just the very dab.

Watching from the VIP tent were the cast of The Bisto Family adverts. "Fucking shite" was the verdict of the bald bloke with the 'tache who played the dad in the adverts. The rest just stood there - the one whose name everyone knows, the speccy girl who looked like a real life version of Velma out of that cartoon, and the other one - nodding. Everyone's a bloody critic nowadays. The next Brass Roots gig is at HM Ipswich Prison and will form the basis of the new long player, provisionally titled "Cellery".

The Glastonbury gig also, sadly, served as a tribute to Danny "Blowin' Free" Happenstance, who died tragically when he became trapped underneath a giant tomato at the photo shoot for the above publicity shot (taken for the 'best-of' album "Jazzatouille"). Firemen with outsize vegetable cutting gear attended but were unable to save the garrulous trumpet player, who was best known for his astonishing tightness. He leaves behind an allotment.